


i won't get better but someday i'll be free

by carrionkid



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: the title comes from the mountain goats song isaiah 45:23matt's in a bad way and can't think of anything better to do than call foggy. they dance around the real questions and issues because it's too hard to put an actual name to it.--He crawled in the window near the bathroom, the only one he ever leaves open. He missed the first couple of times; it's hard to identify the smell of his apartment over the iron stench of blood sticking to the inside of his nostrils. His nose is probably broken again. Third time this month. It's only a matter of time before someone starts asking questions.If he tells them that he fell again, it's not exactly a lie.





	i won't get better but someday i'll be free

He knows his apartment inside and out; where each piece of furniture is and how much it would shield him, all the niches and their routes of exit. It's arranged very specifically and he rarely diverges from the layout. Maybe he's paranoid, maybe it's justified.

 

He crawled in the window near the bathroom, the only one he ever leaves open. He missed the first couple of times; it's hard to identify the smell of his apartment over the iron stench of blood sticking to the inside of his nostrils. His nose is probably broken again. Third time this month. It's only a matter of time before someone starts asking questions.

 

If he tells them that he fell again, it's not exactly a lie.

 

Even though he knows the apartment like the back of his hand, it's hard to navigate when he can't smell right and his ears are ringing and his equilibrium is so fucked up that he can barely walk in a straight line. He knows where everything should be but he can't quite get an idea of where  _ he  _ is.

 

It must be true that the Lord works in mysterious ways because he almost breaks his neck tripping over the armchair in the living room slash kitchen which means that his bedroom is about fifteen feet to the right. He has to get out of the suit, partially to protect his secret but partially because his blood slicks the fabric to his bare skin.

 

It's an infuriating sensation, the kind that makes him want to pull at his hair or wrap his hands around his arms, squeezing tight enough to add more bruises to his collection. Everything will be easier if he can peel out of it. He's kind of halfway crying; an acceptable compromise when he really wants to scream.

 

He pulls the mask off first and it brings him a step close to being Matt. Then, off come the gloves; it's easier when he isn't trying to feel through fabric. He runs his hands through his hair, gently but it  still aggravates the joints he jammed during a careless punch. Matt  _ doesn't  _ pull at his hair. People notice that. If he does anything, it has to be hidden.

 

He’s kneeling on the floor because he doesn’t want to get blood on the bed and he’s reaching back to try to get to the zipper of the suit but his arm really doesn’t want to bend that way. It could be dislocated again. He’ll have to try to pop it back into place. It’s hard to pinpoint one specific point of pain when everything seems to be muting his senses with static.

 

His ears have stopped ringing enough to hear that he’s got the zipper even if it’s hard to feel the metal beneath his fingers over all of everything else. He undoes it all the way then folds forward until his forehead is pressed to the carpet. There has to be some time for him to collect himself before the worst part.

 

It’s easy to be Daredevil. It’s a lot harder to be Matt.

 

Matt, who washes off the blood and dresses the wounds and gets up in the morning and acts like he doesn’t ache all over. He’s gotten good at moving like he isn’t bruised, like he isn’t avoiding tearing stitches. 

 

He can feel the scars under his fingers, the dull sting of long healed injuries. His body tells a story, but he’s never been one for prose.

 

Matt hears the sickening sound the suit makes as he peels it from blood half coagulated to his skin. The tacky spots were acting as something like a seal and he can smell fresh blood in the air as he pulls the suit’s sleeves off of his arms, leaving the top hanging around his waist.

 

He wants to shower, needs to, can’t ruin another set of sheets. It’s hard to tell if he’s leaving blood stains or bleach stains anywhere someone might see them. He’s not had company over for a long time.

 

Matt gets to his feet, legs unsteady, vestibular senses still completely shot. People expect Matt to be clumsy. They’d better be fixed by the time Daredevil’s due for a patrol. Maybe it’s another concussion, or it’s something else. Not a ruptured eardrum, he can still hear just as well as ever.

 

Matt drags a hand against the wall, hoping he isn’t leaving a trail of his own blood behind him. His fingertips feel numb. Everything else about him is screaming. 

 

When the hallway wall ends, he goes left, back through the living room, around the chairs arranged to offer cover if anyone should follow him home, past the open window, and into the bathroom. Things would be simpler if he’d gotten the apartment with the master bath connected to the bedroom, but the realtor implied it would be easier for someone  _ like him.  _

 

Matt decides he won’t make decisions out of spite anymore as he’s fumbling with the door knob. There is blood on his hands. It wouldn’t be this hard to open a door if there wasn’t blood on his hands. Hah. Caught red handed.

 

It’s a cruel joke, but most of them are.

 

He hears the click of the knob turning and finally lets himself exhale. Inhaling again hurts; deep breaths press against a popped rib in a way that makes his legs feel like they'll give out. He's hoping it's just broken and not dislocated.

 

Matt moves into the bathroom, stripping the rest of the way out of the suit. It doesn't feel like there's any blood on his legs, but his muscles burn along his thighs and calves. He needs some damn knee pads for the suit; his knees haven't been bruise free for a year now. He locks the door behind him, just in case.

 

He can still fight, of course, but he's naked and aching and everything feels incredibly exposed and vulnerable. Matt doesn't bother letting the water warm up; he needs the feeling of blood gone as soon as possible and hot water in a cut hurts just as bad as freezing water. He steps into the combination shower-bathtub and his vestibular sense gives out entirely.

 

It feels like the entire world is spinning, ears ringing to block out most of everything, and the only way Matt knows he's fallen is the feeling of his side pressed to cold porcelain. It's funny; you can't tell if your vision's blacked out if you couldn't see anything in the first place.

 

The tender spot in his ribs burns, knocks his breathing back to something desperate and shallow. At least he didn't make it to turning the water on, otherwise this would be much worse.

 

He's panting, grasping at the bathtub to try to find where the edge is. He's been in a bad way before but he usually has an idea of what's up and what's down. He can barely remember who he was fighting, just that he took a few good blows to the head. It doesn't matter much, he'll find out on the news tomorrow.

 

It goes against everything drilled into his stubborn head, but he really wants to call Foggy. Foggy knows what to do, he's good, one of the few people who's never done anything to hurt Matt. It’s a short list, one he doesn’t dwell on unless he has to. Sometimes, friends come in handy; there aren’t many he’d trust with something like this.

 

He keeps busy, keeps distracted, but that isn’t always possible. It’s a vicious cycle; throw yourself harder into patrols to keep your mind off of the ache, end up more injured than before, wash, rinse, repeat.

 

Washing.

 

That’s what he was doing. 

 

He’s still in the bathtub and it’d be possible to turn the water on and get clean like that but he’s fading in and out of lucidity. He hasn’t passed out yet, or he has and he just hasn’t noticed. He’s a more unreliable eyewitness than most.

 

It might make sense to find Matt Murdock drowned in a bathtub, slipped, got disoriented, a tragic accident, but that’d only be plausible up until someone realizes how battered his body is. Do too much digging into Daredevil and the people closest to him might still be in danger with no one to protect them.

 

So, Matt ignores Stick’s words biting at the back of his mind and pulls himself up and out of the bathtub. It’s slow going, trying not to make his head spin again. Foggy will help, but he’ll want to go to a hospital. Bad enough on its own with the smell of antiseptic permeating everything while still managing to barely cover up the stench of everything else. Even worse when someone’ll ask questions.

 

He never has a good enough answer. Not for Foggy, not for Karen, not for anyone else. It’s part of why he’s gotten so good at hiding how bad everything is. They’re lawyers, they know how to piece together evidence to reach the most plausible conclusion.

 

Matt’s often bruised, often bandaged, often jumpy and antsy and more distant than usual. It doesn’t take a law degree to figure out what most people assume is going on.

 

He feels for the suit, tossed somewhere on the tile floor. That was careless, he’s getting careless. The flip phone is in one of the pockets, it’s hard to tell which when he’s so disoriented. It’s a good  phone; practically indestructible. It’s been smashed more times than he can count but still works just fine.

 

Matt runs his fingers over the keypad. He knows the order, knows how they feel, but his fingertips are still feeling uncharacteristically numb. Sensation dulled, or maybe blotted out by everything else.

 

One day they won’t make flip phones anymore, and then it’ll always be like this. 

 

Everyone else's world will keep inching further and further in until he won't be able to be Matt Murdock anymore. He's never had a place in this world; no one treats Daredevil the same way they always treat Matt.

 

Matt plays the system, twists around until he finds a loophole, a way to get by without having to ask anyone for fucking help. It's likely not as degrading as he thinks it is, but he's stubborn and Stick's probably ruined him for life.

 

He calls Foggy because he knows it would make Stick seethe, shoots a little smirk at the gnawing voice at the back of his mind. He's got the number memorized, easier than trying to navigate the contact function of a phone.

 

“Matty?” He sounds exhausted and the only thing stopping Matt from hanging up out of guilt is knowing that it would make Foggy worry more.

 

“I'm okay,” Matt lies through the blood on his teeth, “But, could you come over?”

 

Matt can hear the rustling of Foggy scrubbing at his eyes, “It's really late, Matt.”

 

“I know. I'm sorry.”

 

They've done this dance too many times before.

 

“I'll be there, Matty, hang tight.”

 

His poker face is good enough that no one knows how bad it is when he actually asks for help. The rest of him is bound to give it away as soon as Foggy gets here. He’d clean up more, but staying on the ground is all he can do to keep conscious.

 

It’s too late. He’ll have to come clean and hope Foggy sticks with him.

 

Matt focuses on staying in the present. Focuses on inhaling, on exhaling, on the beat-beat-beat of his heart, a perfect cocoon of noise. It muffles the rest of the apartments, the arguments and distractions and footsteps.

 

He’s so wrapped up in himself that he almost misses the click of lock tumblers falling into place.

 

_ Foggy has a key _ , Matt whispers without sound,  _ it’s Foggy, it’s okay. _

 

It doesn’t help stop the shivering, stop the jump of his heart rate. 

 

“Matt?” 

 

The door slams hard enough to make Matt flinch.

 

“Matt, are you here?”

 

Foggy’s getting worried, there’s a signature hitch in his voice. Matt collects himself, working up to kneeling before even trying to stand.

 

“In the bathroom,” he calls out, feeling for the counter to pull himself up.

 

He can hear Foggy outside the door and finally lets himself untense as much as he can. He needs to undo the lock.

 

“Matt, there’s blood on your--”

 

The door swings open, slow creak behind the sound of dueling heartbeats. It’s every one of Matt’s worst nightmares come true. He’s never been modest, never saw the point in getting bashful around anyone. Foggy’s seen him naked before, back in college, back before he realized how much it bothered other people that he was so cavalier about it.

 

Now, he just feels exposed.

 

“Matty,” Foggy’s voice is strained, would barely be a whisper to anyone else, “Who, God, oh God, who did this to you?”

 

He reaches out in Foggy's general direction; his radar isn't good for finer details but he's got a sense of where people sized objects are. He holds his hand out, fingers loose and shaking until Foggy meets him. Then, he pulls Foggy's hand in close, until he feels it against his cheek, tangling in his hair. It's an anchor, something he can hold onto between all of the sounds and sensations.

 

Foggy's voice is louder now, mix of anger and fear, “Matty, please, who did this to you? How long has this been happening? Why didn't you come to me?”

 

He can't hear Foggy's heart over the jackhammering pulse of his own. The truth is, he did all this to himself. Not that Foggy would buy it, but Matt's never gotten anything he didn't deserve and he's helping people in a way no one else can.

 

Matt thinks he might be crying, but everything is so muted under the racing of his heart and how much he's shaking and the taste of blood in the back of his mouth.

 

“You know what? We'll deal with that later. Let's get you dressed first.

 

Foggy pulls his hand away and Matt finds himself reaching out again, desperate and aimless.

 

“I just wanted to shower,” his voice cracks, “But something's wrong and I couldn't keep my balance.”

 

Foggy's close again, close enough that Matt can feel the heat radiating off him and then he's touching him again, soft and delicate, like he'll break Matt if he isn't careful. He's used to that from everyone else, but never from Foggy. He must look pretty beaten up.

 

“Okay, Matty, we'll do that first.”

 

“I don't want to be dirty anymore,” he whispers, fingers curled tight in Foggy's shirt, “Please, I don't want to be dirty.”

 

They're both practiced at picking apart meanings, but Foggy doesn't say anything at all. 

 

He lets Matt keep one of his hands, gripped tight between his aching fingers as Foggy starts the water running. 

 

“I don't want you to fall again,” Foggy says, and Matt can hear the water filling up the bathtub, hear Foggy swishing a hand through it.

 

He doesn't like baths all that much, after a while the water has a copper tang of blood and he knows he's barely getting clean. Foggy keeps his hands on Matt's waist as he moves to step up and into the  bathtub. His heart catches in his throat when he realized he's not sure how high he needs to step, like the muscle memory is gone. 

 

He makes it up and over the edge, only stumbling slightly. Then, he slides down into the water slowly. Foggy knows he's sensitive to temperature but it still feels too hot on his cuts and bruises. He wasn't an easy roommate, too particular about sounds and smells and the texture of the bedding and going through five shirts a day before finding one that didn't make him want to claw his skin off.

 

He rests with his head against his knees, fingers laced and pressing hard against the back of his neck. Foggy forgoes a washcloth, pouring water over Matt's back instead.

 

He's tired, so so tired, but he can't stop. It's the only thing that makes sense. He thought law school would help, but being able to know the law inside and out doesn't mean everyone follows it or that people don't find loopholes or buy their way out of justice. Nobody follows the structure, not even him.

 

Foggy places a hand on Matt's head at he can't stop himself from flinching at the sudden sensation.

 

“Hey, easy, it's okay.”

 

Foggy doesn't even sound like himself, no jokes, no laughter, no gentle teasing.

 

The air smells like blood and steam. He looks up and Foggy's fingers play across his cheeks, barely touching him again. He hates being handled like a doll. He doesn't want this kind of gentleness and a sort of empty anger builds up in his chest.

 

He snaps, shoving Foggy's hands away from him, “Right about now I want someone to kick me, make it hurt.”

 

He shouldn't have said that but he's so fucking tired of delicate and it's what he deserves. He's not doing enough to help; he's too slow, too useless, too caught up in the chaos to pick the right person to help.

 

“I'm not gonna do that, Matty.”

 

It feels like his hands are hovering near Matt's face, waiting for the okay to touch him again. Instead, Matt hangs his head and sighs.

 

“I know, Foggy, that's why I called  _ you _ .”

 

Foggy gets really quiet; there's not a sound outside of his breathing, his pulse, and Matt can't help but think back to college, to the way Foggy's furrowed brows felt under his fingertips. Maybe he's doing that now, maybe he's frowning. Matt wonders if it would bring out the dimples he felt when Foggy smiled.

 

Matt can feel the soft brush of Foggy's fingers against the back of his neck, sliding up into his hair; he wants to turn back and map out his features again. He hasn't done that since college and so much has changed.

 

“I'm worried about you, Matt. I have been for a long time.”

 

He'd tell Foggy that he doesn't need to be worried, but that would be a lie. Matt's worried too, worried about the days where he doesn't want to get out of bed, the days where he's so struck with fear that he can barely move. He’s supposed to be the man  _ without  _ fear, but he’s just kidding himself; it only lasts as long as he’s wearing the suit.

 

It's suffocating, it's worse than it ever was in college.

 

There are names for this and he knows more than a few of them, but it still feels so wrong to call it anything at all.

 

“Come on, Matty,” Foggy pulls him out of his thoughts, “Let's get you dried and dressed.”

 

Foggy helps him up, out of the water and the cool air against his wet skin makes him recoil. He prays, actually prays, that Foggy won’t notice the suit on the ground because he’s not actually sure if he can do this. Foggy drapes a towel over his shoulders and doesn’t say a word about the pile of bloody fabric on the floor.

 

It’s a nice gesture but Matt can’t stop himself from hating how helpless he feels.. At least Foggy’s giving him the dignity of letting him dry himself off. 

 

He picks everything based off of comfort level, but the towel still feels like sandpaper right now. It gets like this sometimes, this desperate feeling right under his skin. There are so many things that his body can’t handle, so many sensations; it seems like the only thing he can cope with is the injuries.

 

When he’s done, he wraps the towel around his waist. Matt’s quietly thankful for Foggy letting him lean against his side. His vestibular sense is still reeling and he’s caught somewhere between being hyper-aware of every part of his body and not knowing where he’s putting his feet with each step.

 

Foggy stops outside of his bedroom and Matt takes a few steps forward on his own. He has to brace against the doorframe, but he smiles through the ache to lessen the concern. Foggy knows how much he hates needing help and he lets Matt go with a kind of lingering hold on his arm.

 

Matt catches Foggy’s hand, takes a moment to squeeze it tight, “Thanks.”

 

“No problem, Matt.”

 

He keeps the bedroom door halfway open so he can still hear what Foggy’s doing. It’s a good thing Foggy didn’t come in with him; Matt’s not entirely sure how much blood there is on the carpet and he doesn’t want Foggy to force him to go to the hospital. He doesn’t know what time it is, nor how close it is to morning, but he wants to wear something comfortable.

 

“Have you eaten lately?” Foggy calls, voice ricocheting off the hallway wall, “I know you used to collapse like that when we were in college.”

 

Matt knows he doesn’t want to talk about the cuts and the blood on the door, “I don’t think that’s the issue, Foggy.”

 

He hears the fridge open anyway as he’s feeling his way through his wardrobe, trying to find something that’s at least tolerable.

 

“Everything you have is so  _ bland,  _ Matt! Rice, pasta, bread, more pasta, “meal replacement shakes”, you’re barely living at all!”

 

Matt manages a half laugh as he tries to pull a shirt over his head. It’s not easy, all of his ribs are tender and at least one is broken.

 

“Seriously, Matty, at least get some jam and honey, dude. I can’t imagine living on bread sandwiches.”

 

“Stop making me laugh, Foggy, it hurts my ribs,” he smiles to himself as he braces against the hallway wall; he just has to make it to the living room and onto one of the couches.

 

Foggy comes to meet him on the couch, bowl of rice in hand. It smells like butter and salt and he’s got a feeling that Foggy didn’t get the ratio right but he won’t complain. He relaxes into the sound of Foggy’s breathing, his heart, now that it’s even again. When his own pulse evens out, he tries to eat. It’s not easy, which just makes him feel sick and frustrated and fed up with himself. 

 

And then Foggy’s pulse spikes.

 

“We have to talk about this, Matt, you know we do.”

 

“Don’t you know?” Matt smirks, a halfhearted and hollow gesture, “I’m Daredevil.”

 

Foggy sighs, not the tired kind but the disappointed kind and Matt can feel this stone of guilt in his gut.

 

“Don’t joke about this, Matt. Please.”

 

“Okay, I’m sorry. Would you believe me if I said I fell?”

 

“Maybe you don’t want to talk to me,” Foggy’s voice is picking up that note he knows means anger and he desperately wants to backtrack, “But there are people you can talk to, people who can help. You should  _ know this.  _ We see this all the time.”

 

“I know. I’m working on it, Foggy. I’m trying.”

 

“Try  _ harder _ ! God, I don’t want to find you bleeding or broken or unconscious or even  _ dead,  _ Matt! I’m glad you called me but all I can think about is the times you  _ didn’t. _ ”

 

“I know, I know,” Matt runs a hand through his hair, “I don’t want you to be mad at me, I really don’t want you to be mad at me.”

 

“I’m not mad at you,” Foggy sighs again, tired sigh this time, “I’m  _ mad _ , about all of this, about you being too stubborn for your own good, but I’m not mad at you.”

 

“Thank you, thank you, Foggy,” Matt sets the bowl aside and draws his legs up onto the couch.

 

Foggy’s hands are warm and Matt can feel them near his skin before Foggy even touches him. He cups Matt’s cheeks, thumbs brushing against the bruised, scarred spots under his eyes. Other than Elektra, Foggy’s the only one who’s been allowed to touch him like this, to touch his scars.

 

He finds himself covering Foggy’s hands with his own, as if Foggy will just pull away if he doesn’t.

 

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Foggy barely whispers, “Promise me you’ll get help.”

 

Matt really doesn’t want to lie, nor does he want to break a promise.

 

“I’ll do my best.”

 

Foggy doesn’t respond, just keeps circling his skin with his thumbs. It was like this in college, sometimes. Always on the worst days and Foggy never even questioned him. It’s part of why Matt likes him so much, he’s willing to just let him be  _ Matt.  _

 

It was so much easier then. He almost misses it.

 

“Stay home today, Matt. I’ll cover for you.”

 

“I can’t, there’s a big trial coming up and--”

 

“--And you look like someone tried to kill you. Which,  _ for all I know _ , someone might have,” Foggy says. 

 

Matt exhales, leaning all the way into Foggy’s touch, “Okay.”

 

“I’ll come by and bring you lunch and painkillers and until then, you just need to sleep, alright?”

 

“Okay,” Matt repeats, he can feel the warm sting of tears welling up in his eyes.

 

“I’m heading out, I need to try to sleep a bit more. But you should call me if you need me at all.”

 

Foggy pulls back, but he lingers nearby until Matt lets go of his hands. The air against his skin, against the places where Foggy was holding him, is almost too much again. He counts Foggy’s footsteps and listens until he hears Foggy turning the door handle. 

 

“I…” The words catch in his throat, “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

“Be glad you’ve got me, then,” Foggy kind of laughs, “I’ll be back soon, Matty.”

 

“I’ll be waiting.”

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory disclaimer: if you think you have a concussion PLEASE go to a doctor and don't do what i did and go home and wait for like 8 hours before telling anyone and then have to get xrays done and do 3 months of PT


End file.
